


It's A Process

by saruma_aki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Derek Has Issues, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Feels, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Derek Hale, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: "Healing takes awhile," is what Stiles whispered to him, his fingers carding gently through his hair. "But it's okay," he whispered, twisting a small piece of the locks in a gentle fashion, looking at him with understanding eyes, "I'll help you through it."





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I caught some Derek feels talking about all of the times Derek's been raped, used, abused, and hurt and how emotionally scarred he is but how he still somehow manages to keep going--and I had to write a fic on him working through it and finding out it's okay to be happy.
> 
> You can read it as a post-season four/mid-season four canon divergence. It's somewhere around that time.
> 
> Enjoy!

He couldn’t hear anything—not past the pounding in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears and the gasping breaths he was desperately tugging in, fingers buried in his hair, struggling to reign in the panic, to reign in the sudden flood of emotion and fear.

He felt jittery but too frozen to move, his hands shaking, muscles trembling, flexing as he fought against the crippling fear, sweat beading his forehead, slicking his palms and the nape of his neck, knees pulling up to his chest. His ribs were in a permanent state of expansion in lieu of his rapid breathing, chest heaving as he struggled to keep the air in his lungs for more than a beat.

He just wanted to sleep, but the fear wouldn’t let him, his vision distorted like looking at an image through a fractured lens.

He just wanted to sleep. The plea was lost in the whirlwind of his thoughts, the chaos swallowing the soft wish, his fingers flexing and curling in his hair, gripping tighter.

He just wanted to sleep.

 

 

 

The house bore many memories, Derek acknowledged as he worked on taking it apart, his hands shaking minutely and breath hissing out in between clenched teeth, his eyes a bit watery, but he blinked the emotion away as he moved almost mechanically.

This was good.

This was better for him, for the memory of his family.

It’s what they would have wanted.

“Hey there, Der,” a voice called from behind, but he had heard the roar of the engine and the sound of steps long before the male called his name, his scent mingling with the smells of the forest and of the charred wood and flesh and—don’t go there.

He let out a thin breath, letting himself relax as he reminded himself rhythmically ‘don’t go there, don’t go there, don’t go there’, keeping his heart rate slow as he turned to look back at the male.

He didn’t trust himself to speak, especially not while doing this, so he offered up a small nod, turning back to the work of shifting burnt furniture out of the house, shoving it through and letting it tumble onto the lawn. It was therapeutic, each thump of burnt wood and fabric landing on the grass was like a bit of weight lifting off his shoulders.

“It’s good that you’re doing this, you know?” Stiles murmured, lips pursing as he shoved the burnt shell of a chaise lounge chair over to Derek, but it was like he understood that it made him feel better if he threw it out himself, if it was him.

The male’s presence had become comforting over the days.

The project took a toll on Derek—not just physically but emotionally, dark circles under his eyes and his expression more drawn, a testament to his pain. But Stiles’ presence soothed it, in a way. It provided a welcome distraction whenever the pain got too much and he felt like there was a vice around his chest, squeezing and squeezing until he couldn’t drag in another breath.

Taking another calming breath, he heaved the lounge chair to the door and shoved it out, watching it topple onto the lawn to join the rest of the pieces of furniture.

“How long have you been at this?” Stiles questioned softly not twenty minutes after he arrived, standing back as Derek took a sledge hammer to the walls, letting his anger and sadness wash through him and propel his movements. Every crack of sound of the metal hitting burnt wood was like a crack in the armor he wore and he could feel his breath shortening a bit with each hit even as the guilt lifted a little bit.

He didn’t want the guilt gone. He didn’t know what to do without it.

He had lived so long with the crushing weight of thinking he was the reason his family burned alive he didn’t know how to be without it.

His breath shortened more and he could feel his grip on the handle falter as he kept hitting, aiming for the main places of structural support on the house, chest heaving as he struggled to pull in another breath, grip slackening even more as he kept swinging like his life depended on it.

But each crack in the wall, each minor lifting of the crushing guilt, made him shake, made his chest constrict and expand at the same time and on the next back swing, the hammer went flying behind him but he couldn’t pay attention to it, knees buckling as he struggled to pull in a decent breath.

He was pretty sure there was some sort of thump behind him, a sharp yelp. He knew he heard Stiles’ voice, a muffled expletive and his name with ‘what’. He didn’t know what the male said, blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding away, claws sinking into the earth as he tried to reign in some semblance of control.

There were hands on his shoulders—he could feel the faint pressure where they rested, the slight tap of something on his left one before the pressure settled and his hands shot up, grasping the two limbs attached to the source of pressure on his shoulders, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“Stay with me, stay with me. Focus on my voice, okay? You’re going to get through this; you’re going to be fine.”

He desperately clung to the voice, the words, air seeming to no longer be able to find its way into his lungs even as the person encouraged him to breathe slowly, counting out breaths for him, voice soothing and calm, a stark contrast to how he felt at that moment.

He felt like he was tearing apart at the seams.

“Listen to my voice. You’re going to get through this. It’s not the place that’s scaring you, Derek, it’s the thought. Stop thinking—just focus on me, focus on my voice.”

And he did.

He trained all of his senses on the male’s voice, on the steady but light pressure on his shoulders, on the soft brush of the male’s breath on his forehead as he breathed steadily, encouraging Derek to follow suit and he did.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, kneeling on the ground, but eventually he had his breath back and his vision was no longer clouded with tears and the sounds and scents of the forest and Stiles drifted back to him, and he finally recognized the male in front of him to be the spastic teen he had slowly been growing fond of.

“Better?”

He nodded jerkily, swallowing thickly, swaying to sit back, falling to lie on his back, gazing dazedly up at the sky. He felt a gentle tap on his wrist and he turned his palm out, letting Stiles’ hand hold his, let the warmth become the focal point of his senses, let his scent flood his nose, let the sound of his steady breathing wash into his ears and drown out every other sound as his heart rate slowed in increments.

“Thanks,” he croaked, voice rough from disuse, the first thing he had said all day.

Stiles simply hummed and when Derek’s eyes rolled to look over at him, the male was looking up at the sky, amber eyes wide and reflecting the expanse of blue above them. “C’mon; let’s go get something to eat,” Stiles murmured, voice still soothing and calm. “I think you’re done for today.”

Derek shook his head, struggling to prop himself up but he felt shaky all over, jittery but he felt too weak to move. “No, I can—I have to finish this.” His voice was weak and it cracked a little bit, but he was too strung out to even muster a shred of embarrassment in response to that or the desperation in his voice.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, turning to look at him, fitting their hands together in the process, cradling Derek’s hand in both of his as if shielding it from the world, feeling the minute tremors in it, “it’s okay to stop. Healing is slow,” Stiles murmured, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, lips tugging up into a slight smile. “We’ll come back early tomorrow and finish it up, alright?”

“You have class.”

“I can miss a day.”

The ‘for you’ was left unspoken but Derek felt it all the same and it sent another crack spiraling along the armor of guilt that he had worn for so, so long. And it made him want to break down all over again—and he knew that it was okay to feel that.

Stiles had said so.

It was okay to feel vulnerable.

And who else should he entrust that part of himself to first than Stiles, who had been helping him from the start?

 

 

 

“How do you cope?” Derek whispered into the quiet room, brow furrowed as he looked down at his hands, looking at the lines on his palms, the small whorls of his fingerprints. He felt cleaner in some way as the days went by and the structure of the house finally collapsed and it came down before him, as it was cleared away and the contractors came in to begin the construction.

Stiles’ quick babbling faded as his mood turned a bit somber, understanding that Derek needed a serious answer, that he felt like he was being pulled apart and that he felt exposed—and that he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“I talk,” Stiles responded after a beat of silence and Derek looked at him with a furrowed brow, wondering what that meant. “I mean, not how I typically talk because that’s just—”

“Saying everything but nothing at all,” Derek mumbled and Stiles blinked owlishly at him before snorting a little bit, nodding in assent, pulling his legs up to cross Indian style, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward a bit, back a slumped curve, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “But when I say ‘I talk’, I just talk to myself—when I’m alone I repeat the truths to myself. Like,” he let out a slow breath, back straightening as his eyes fluttered shut, thinking carefully before turning to look at Derek, shuffling to face him completely, their knees touching. The werewolf blinked at him, confusion etched on his expression as Stiles held out his hand. “Come on, I have an idea.”

Derek blinked once more, slow and confused, but he held out his hands, letting their hands meet and Stiles nodded to himself as if to solidify himself in his decision before looking at Derek determinedly.

“Okay, this might help you. It helps me.” Stiles took in a steadying breath and Derek felt the realization that this was probably going to be emotional, probably going to make him feel even more exposed—but he trusted Stiles with this. Stiles dealt with this feeling every day. If anyone could help him learn how to move past this, it was Stiles.

“Alright.”

“Okay, so, we’re going to do what I do. I’ll give a truth of one of the things that causes my panic attacks and you give a truth back of one of things that causes. We won’t do it much right now, especially if it doesn’t make you feel better, but we’re going to try it, okay?”

Derek nodded in agreement, grip tightening on Stiles’ hands and the male squeezed back reassuringly.

“Alright, close your eyes,” Stiles said, following his own instruction, his eyes fluttering shut.

Derek followed suit, eyes fluttering shut, but he could feel the jitteriness immediately building in his bones at the dark, at being left to his thoughts unhindered by the distractions of sights, even something as mundane as a piece of wood would have made him feel better as long as he could see it.

Stiles’ hands squeezed his, snapping him out of his panic, making all of his senses train solely on Stiles and on the warmth of his hands, the deepness of his breath that he immediately moved to match.

“Okay,” the male breathed and Derek felt him shift a bit, heard the scratch of the denim on both of their legs rubbing together. “I did not kill my mom.”

Derek sat there, fighting against the desire to open his eyes and look at Stiles in surprise. That hadn’t been what he had been expecting as a confession, but it made him feel better, in a way. It was like the most solid confirmation he could get that he was not alone in this. That someone else had that fear.

“I did not kill my family,” he whispered and words tasted like a lie and made his tongue feel heavy and his stomach churn. Was he allowed to say something like that? He had gotten them killed, hadn’t he? No, no, that wasn’t true. He knew that now, knew that he wasn’t the reason. But did he?

“Allison’s death was not my fault,” Stiles breathed and Derek could hear the slight rapidness to his heartbeat, the way it was out of its usual tempo and it made him a bit nervous, his own agitation rising, but then Stiles was breathing deeply, his heart rate slowing just slightly as he worked to keep calm.

Was this what he did every night?

“Laura’s death was not my fault.”

He felt like Stiles was specifically choosing fears of his that matched Derek’s own, providing a guideline of sorts for him and it made him feel ridiculously grateful for having the male in his life. It made him so grateful that he felt the burn behind his eyes, the desire to weep, to let his emotions out in a way he was only beginning to re-learn was okay.

His hands started to shake just a bit and he gripped Stiles’ tighter, trying to stop shaking, to stop the panic building in him because the sudden onslaught of emotions wouldn’t stop—how did he make them stop?

“Derek? Derek, open your eyes, look at me right now.”

His eyes flew open at the feeling of two warm palms cupping his cheeks, clouded, fractured gaze meeting whiskey orbs that swam in his vision but were full of worry, as was the male’s scent.

“I think I need to stop,” Derek whispered, voice thick, hands grasping Stiles’ forearms, hold tight, the contact being his anchor as he fought against being swept up in the current of emotions running through his system. Stiles nodded, murmuring ‘okay, okay’ and running his fingers through his hair, something that worked wonders on calming him down and he was grateful Stiles refrained from making a dog joke.

“Let’s do something else, alright? You wanna watch a movie?”

Derek nodded, trembling slowly stopping as his emotions settled, but his grip on Stiles’ arms didn’t loosen, but Stiles didn’t seem to mind.

 

 

 

The action of controlling his emotions seemed daunting as the days turned into weeks and the attacks didn’t slow as the construction continued.

He was on site most day, watching as his home was built from the ground up, watched as men and women bustled about with planks of wood and brick as they looked over the original blueprints. He felt his guilt receding every time, like the rebuilding was a way of giving his deceased family a sort of peace—a new beginning.

But with the slow loss of guilt came more emotions he had ceased knowing how to control.

“Stiles,” he breathed into the phone, claws digging into the mattress of his bed in his loft, fangs peaking out of his gums.

“What? Derek, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” he gasped, skin itching, eyes flashing sporadically, his vision flipping from a red tint to the clear of human eyes, “I can’t control it—the shift—I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He heard a curse and then the sound of pounding footsteps on the other line, the shout of someone behind Stiles, but he heard Stiles continue moving.

“Okay, where are you?”

“The loft,” he slurred, fangs making speaking a bit hard, his hands shaking, eyes flitting about the room, trying to find something to anchor himself with, to keep from shifting completely when he wasn’t sure how his state of mind would affect his wolf.

“Alright—I’m heading there right now, okay? Stay put. Focus on my voice, alright? Try to fight it,” Stiles instructed, but Derek thoughts were growing hazy as he felt the wolf prowling under the surface, his skin feeling to tight, his insides churning, bones creaking and aching, the pull to shift too strong.

“Stiles, I can’t,” he gasped out, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut as he fought against the pull, trying to hold on a bit longer, just long enough for Stiles to get here. He just had to hold out a bit longer, but it was easier said than done.

“You can and you will. I’m almost there; just hold on for a minute longer,” Stiles coaxed, his voice hard but gentle, an odd contrast that Stiles managed to pull off beautifully—as expected.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he curled up tight on the bed, claws digging in harder into the mattress, jaw hanging open, head tilted down towards his knees as he fought to remain in control.

Stiles was almost here; Stiles was almost here.

He just had to hold on.

Just a bit longer—a bit longer.

“Derek?”

The relief that swam through him took a good portion of his control with it and he felt the beta shift overcoming him, his eyes screwing shut, a low rumble beginning in his chest. He heard the footsteps approaching, felt the dip of the bed as Stiles got onto the bed, the scent of hesitation and concern filling his nose along with the scent that was purely Stiles.

“Derek?” he asked and Derek’s eyes immediately flew open, face turning to look at Stiles who was gazing at him in concern, brow furrowed, a hand reached out. “Can I?” the hand reached out further, looking at Derek, waiting for confirmation.

He nodded, his mind hazy, and he felt Stiles’ fingers brush his forehead hesitantly before continuing up, running through his hair, and the small action had Derek surging up, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding tightly, jaw dropping open to release an agonized roar, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking past.

He heard the slight jump in Stiles’ heartbeat before it slowed once again, his fingers carding through Derek’s hair, voice quiet and soothing as he spoke. “Let go, Derek. I’m here; I’ve got you. You can shift. You’re safe—it’s okay.”

Heart thudding in his ears, he loosened his grip slightly as the rest of the shift took over, bones reshaping as hair sprouted along his body. The shift was seamless; something Stiles had told him on multiple occasions was amazing. But Derek didn’t feel amazing then.

He felt lost, conflicted, scared.

He had learned to control the shift.

Why was it not working now?

His anchor had already changed—it was no longer anger.

So where was the problem?

He whined low in his throat, settling on the bed, long body stretched out as Stiles curled up behind him, fingers stroking gently through his fur, mumbling soft words about meaningless things, making small comments on Derek’s wolf form and making the atmosphere overall lighter, pulling Derek back from his downward spiral.

It was only a few hours later that Derek was able to shift back, feeling a bit less shaky but no less confused and scared.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It’s the attacks,” Stiles mumbled, his fingers still stroking through Derek’s hair, pulling the blanket up to cover Derek’s modesty before returning to is earlier position of lying down, fingers rhythmically going through the dark strands, eyes half lidded in what seemed to be exhaustion. Seeing Derek’s confused expression, Stiles shifted, propping himself up on his elbow. “The attacks, they kind of make you feel like your emotions are in disarray, right?”

Derek nodded.

“Well, the shift is influenced by your emotions sometimes, right? That’s why you can’t control it too well, despite your anchor,” Stiles concluded, smiling down at him a bit. “But as you heal, you’ll get that control back,” he reassured. “It takes time, but you’ll get there.”

He nodded once more, throat working, words wanting to form but he couldn’t seem to get them out, so instead he simply shifted closer and let his eyes close for a moment, trying to show his thanks in a silent way.

 

 

 

“Maybe you should see a therapist,” Stiles mumbled, head resting against Derek’s shoulders, a piece of jerky hanging out of the side of his mouth, fingers wrapped around the end of it as he chewed slowly, thoughtfully.

Derek stayed silent for a moment, eyes focused on the screen before looking down at Stiles. “Would you come with me?”

He felt the male’s hand on his knee, giving it a small squeeze. “Of course, dude,” Stiles mumbled, his eyes still fixed on the screen, but his eyes flicked up briefly to meet Derek’s, the corner of his lips twitching up.

“Don’t call me ‘dude’,” Derek grumbled, but he was smiling anyway and Stiles’ startled bit of laughter that sent the spastic teen choking on his own spit in the midst of laughing was well worth it.

 

 

 

“So, how do you feel?” Stiles murmured from next to him, hand warm against Derek’s skin where it was gently wrapped around his forearm, providing a welcome anchor to the chaotic whirlwind of Derek’s thoughts as he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, working through each and every one like the therapist had taught him to, letting the emotions filter through him at a slower rate.

“Good, I think,” he answered honestly, gazing up at the house, newly reconstructed and standing in all its glory, an almost replica of his former childhood home, only lacking the memories, but that was okay. He’d fill it with more memories, happy memories, ones that didn’t end in sadness and heartache.

This was a new start for him, for his family, and he was feeling happy again, learning that it was okay.

“Thank you, Stiles, for being here,” Derek mumbled, shifting his arm so that Stiles’ hand slipped down to land in his, giving it a gentle squeeze as he turned his gaze away from the house to look over at the brunette, taking in the way his eyes were flicking about the grand structure, whiskey colored eyes reflecting the image and appearing brighter in the light of the sun.

“No problem,” Stiles answered, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “I was wondering how it would look when it was finished. It’s a lot bigger than I thought it would be—well, it seems bigger, but—”

“Not,” Derek interrupted with a soft smile, “what I meant.” He watched Stiles turn his gaze on him, brow furrowed, confusion etched onto his face as he tilted his head to the side. “I meant,” he inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the bit of nerves building in him—Stiles had seen him at his absolute lowest; there was nothing to be nervous about, “thank you for being here with me, helping me. You didn’t have to, but you did, and I’m really glad you did.”

Stiles blinked; his eyes were wide before a slow grin cracked his expression. “I think that’s one of the longest, deepest things you’ve said outside of your safe room.” Derek felt a small squeeze at his hand and Stiles’ warm eyes met his own. “But I’m glad I did, too.”

They entered the house, looking at the grand foyer and the smooth wooden floors of the entire house, the large empty living room that was just waiting to be filled with furniture—the large house just waiting to be filled with memories, this time happy until the end.

And it was like another weight had been lifted off his shoulders as he looked about at his home, rebuilt and remade. It made his heart swell and his hands shake minutely as he worked through the swell of emotions in his chest, pushing away any attack as he methodically worked through it like he had been taught.

It was a slow going process. The attacks still came. Sometimes the lack of guilt would send him spiraling, his mind slowly dripping down into the gutter as he wondered if he was really allowed to be happy.

It was slow.

But it was progress.

And he was learning.

And maybe it was the idea of restarting, of rebuilding, of filling the large house with as many happy memories as he could that gave him the courage to pull Stiles closer by the hand, his free hand coming up to cup his cheek and press their lips together.

And the house had its first happy memory as Stiles made a small noise in the back of his throat and kissed back, hand coming up to card his fingers through Derek’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on instagram ( @saruma_aki ); I let y'all know when I have a new story out or have updated one, so if you like my work, that's a good way to stay up to date (plus, I post lots of multi-fandom posts and all that goodness).
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments below <3


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